


Reflection

by toolongtooclose



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fantasy, Fluff, M/M, Modern Era, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21931474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toolongtooclose/pseuds/toolongtooclose
Summary: A light fantasy in which touching magical artifacts is not, in fact, a super bright idea.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31
Collections: Stucky Secret Santa 2019





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragongirlG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/gifts).



> My Stucky Secret Santa gift for dragongirlG. A light fantasy AU with a tiny bit of angst and a hopefully-happy ending. I really do hope you enjoy this, and sorry for coming in just under the wire!

Steve has a complicated relationship with rules. He tends to follow them when they have a good, firm basis in reality. When he can understand the whats and whys, the sense behind them. But there’s not really all that much sense behind not directly touching the stock he’s supposed to be sorting, now, is there? Sure, the stuff is old and dusty, probably worth more than he’ll make in his tenure at the shop, but it’s not like a few errant fingerprints can’t be wiped away easily enough. And, besides, he’s allergic to the latex and Bucky has yet to come through with the promised substitutes.

So he doesn’t feel guilty when he’s on crossed legs in the back room, reaching for the mirror. He doesn’t feel even a pang of remorse about grasping the handle and drawing it toward him to examine. There’s a hand-written list beside him, with descriptions of new items and the value assigned and the spot in the displays where they will be left. He’s busy examining that and ignoring the strange tingle that washes over his body with the heavy, ornamental thing in his hand.

Strange feelings are a constant for Steve, something he’s learned to live with and ignore easily enough. Maybe it’s another cold coming on. There’s a distinct feeling, a little bit like he’s about to sneeze. Allergies, perhaps, kicking up with all the dust in the place. He knew it would be a problem before he accepted the job, but the look on Bucky’s face when he said they’d caved to his request for a second employee had been irresistible. A lot of things about Bucky and his stupid face were.

It’s not until Steve goes to glance in the mirror that he realizes something is properly  _ off _ . The glass is smudged and tarnished, rendering the whole thing pretty damn useless. Which checks off about every box when it comes to the collection in the old antiques joint. All the same, he moves to wipe the side of his fist along the glass when he first notices it— _ it  _ being a whole host of things all at once.

His hand, for starters, is large and broad, and when he unclenches it, his palm covers most of the expanse of glass on the hand mirror. A jolt hits his chest, which feels suddenly tight. Not the oh-great-another-asthma-attack sort of tight that might have him fishing into his pocket for his inhaler. More of a ‘my clothes are about three sizes too tight’ style constriction. And when he tilts the glass, foggy and streaked and largely useless as it might be, he sees that this is entirely the case.

He drags his suddenly large hand across a chest that is dense and muscular and not at all the soft skin and bird bones he’d glanced in another mirror an hour or two ago. When he moves, he feels seams tugging and tearing around his armpits, watches the blurry form of his tee expanding with rapid and deep breaths in the near-worthless mirror. He sees his face, broadened and angular, the curve of his jaw suddenly harsher and more solid. He sees himself, in bits and pieces between the dark blotches, and with a jolt he throws the thing back and he screams.

* * *

Bucky is running late, but that’s nothing new. He wouldn’t say the  _ whole  _ point of having Steve on in the shop is to compensate for his regular tardiness, but it’s certainly an added bonus. The shop will be open and waiting for him to lounge back behind the counter and watch the customers fail to roll in. He’s pretty sure he can count the number of transactions he’s experienced in his tenure at the place on one hand. That being said, what the customers lack in volume, they make up for in sheer  _ weirdness _ .

He’s worked at Collectors—a  _ stupid  _ fucking name, if you ask him—for the better part of a year now. It sits somewhere neatly between antiques and oddities in its wares, and firmly on the latter side in its clientele. The prices are absurd, and Bucky thinks the name may, in fact, come from the true nature of the place. A collection more than a shop. Those who actually intend to purchase seem to know what they want before stepping in the door. Those who come to browse are few and far-between, the place easy enough to miss if you aren’t looking for it, and the prices eye-watering enough to drive away even the looky-loos after a few cursory glances.

He wonders often enough how it stays in business. The pay is pretty damn solid for what the work consists of—most often sitting behind the counter with his feet kicked up and his tablet sitting in front of him. The hours have a way of working around his schedule, regardless of what classes he’s taking that semester, and the owner? Well, he’s never actually met the guy, but the checks come in on time and he can’t say he minds the hands-off approach.

The rules are lax here, with only one being paramount: don’t touch  _ anything _ . This rule extends to visitors, as well. If someone is truly interested in a piece, they’re expected to slip their hands into disposable gloves for any handling. Stocking is a practice of patience and care. Always gloves, keep your sleeves rolled down, do not come in contact with anything, do not forget to lock the cases, do not leave anyone unattended. He figures it comes with the territory. Despite all outward appearances, the prices betray this to be an upscale sort of place, and the antiques are, well, really fucking old.

He doesn’t know the science of any of it, if there’s some oil on his skin that will tarnish or tear or wear down whatever it is he’s handling. There’s no sense to it in his mind, but Bucky has always followed the rules, under strict threat of immediate unemployment and implied dismemberment. The girl who gave him the keys was pretty and initially unassuming and eventually absolutely terrifying. He liked girls like that, even if they insisted on calling him by his given name.

There are plenty of things, though, that he likes even more than redheads with a threatening aura. Like keeping all his fingers. And Steve. He’s liked both of these things very much and for just about as long as he can remember, and it’s with the latter in mind that he decided this morning he could be just a little bit later for work. He stops at their favorite spot for breakfast and shoulders into the shop with an arm full of bagged up bagels and carrier-held coffees. 

Or, rather, he  _ would  _ have shouldered into the shop, but the front door is still locked. He frowns, his stomach sinking. Did Steve already give up on him? That didn’t seem likely. The job was new for his best friend, and while he wasn’t sure he took it seriously, Bucky wasn’t sure there was anything about it  _ to  _ take seriously. Really, all there was to the gig was showing up and keeping your grubby hands off the merchandise. And, of course, actually opening the shop.

He doesn’t know exactly why his heart is pounding when he fumbles one-handedly for his keys. He can imagine a million good reasons why Steve might be running even later than him, but his hand shakes at the lock when he envisions the billion bad ones. Steve is prone to trouble. He’s got a knack for picking fights, and a bigger knack for losing them. Bucky does his best to step in, but how’s he supposed to look out for the guy if he’s off causing trouble before Bucky is even out of bed?

“Steve?” He calls out the name the moment he has the door open, loud and shaky and hopeful. He knows he won’t get a response, knows it down to his bones. The lights are on in the shop but, it would seem, there’s no one home. He looks around, drops the food and the coffees and the keys on the counter before he hears the crash. It’s followed immediately by heavy footsteps and the back door slamming on its hinges and Bucky feels like he’s about to fall over.

“Hey! Who’s there!?” Bucky is moving on instinct, slamming into the backroom with a lot more force than the creaky door is used to. It splinters against his shoulder, but he doesn’t notice for a moment. What he does notice is the scene before him, and it doesn’t look good. Stock notes are strewn across the floor and, before them, a mirror is shattered on the ground. He steps through the shards, making it just in time to see the back door swinging on his hinges and a flash of leg turning to the alley.

Steve isn’t here, but he has been— he must have been. Why else would the notes be on the floor? Why else would stock be out, broken and discarded? But someone else was here too, whoever was running out the door now. Bucky doesn’t think—he’s pretty good at that—before he’s giving chase. There’s no use, after all, in wondering why the hell someone would ever break into a place like this. He remembers the price tags, after all, and that was answer enough.

“Stop! Hey,  _ stop! _ ” Bucky bursts through the back door in plenty of time to see the staggering gait of the man down the alleyway. He’s running strangely, his legs wobbling and sending him in different directions as he moves. He reminds Bucky a little bit of a baby deer, just learning how to stand. He can’t get far and he can’t get there fast, but it’s not as easy as Bucky just catching him.

The guy is big, broader than Bucky by no small stretch. Hulking, almost. He’s unwieldy, but he’s probably scared, and that makes him dangerous. Bucky must have caught him off guard by opening the front door, sent him on his way in a hurry. Whatever he’s stolen is probably weighing him down, accounting for the strange stagger to his run. Bucky should stop, call the cops, hope they can track down the guy before he gets too far. But he’s running on adrenaline and, more importantly, that conspicuous absence in the shop.

Where the hell is Steve?

What Bucky doesn’t expect is for the guy to actually stop running, but that’s what he does. He must not know where he’s going, or that the fence in front of him has a gate with a broken lock, opens easily enough. He’s taken it as a shortcut a dozen times over. Anyone smart enough to case the place would have figured that much out before. So what the hell was this guy’s angle? Some sort of amateur who chose the dumbest possible place to rob? Bucky hadn’t had time to check the safe, but he has the distinct doubt that this idiot could have cracked it.

“Look, man. I don’t know what you think you’ve got, but I promise it ain’t worth it. Just bring it back, an’ we’ll sort this out. I won’t call the cops, okay? Just… give me whatever you took.” Bucky thinks he’s heard this sort of reasoning out of some shitty crime drama before. He will, of course, absolutely be calling the cops. But if this guy is armed, the best thing he can think to do is put him at ease.

The man doesn’t move at first, like he’s frozen in place. Bucky thinks it might be a good sign. Or, hell, it might be a really bad one. He’s never dealt with a burglary before, and it certainly wasn’t in the job description. He never would have guessed the place a target, but here he is, standing in a back alley with an intruder slowly extending his hands. The gesture reads as meaning no harm, but Bucky sure as hell can’t be sure.

“Listen, just—”

“— _ Bucky _ .” 

Bucky’s mind stops in its tracks for a moment and so does he. He knows that voice, would know it anywhere, but how? He thinks he has Steve pinned in front of him maybe, pressed by his body to the gate, and suddenly he’s hot and cold with the worry of what the hell  _ that  _ could mean. But his seized up mind doesn’t have time to examine any implications because, just as soon, the guy is turning around, facing him, and Bucky thinks he might actually faint.

* * *

Steve trudges back toward the shop behind Bucky, not missing the way his best friend keeps turning and gaping at him. He supposes he would do the same, if faced with what Bucky currently was. Steve was himself, but very suddenly and very much not. He’s a stranger in someone else’s body, but his voice is still his own and it was enough to convince Bucky, at very least, to take him back inside.

They step over the broken glass of the mirror and Bucky returns to the front door to lock it, make sure the sign is turned to closed. He stops at the lights, hand hovering to turn them off, but he thinks better of it and returns to Steve, who stands by the counter. Neither of them say anything at all for what feels like a very long time. Bucky is only staring, his eyes sweeping over Steve in a way that would have made him a much better sort of uncomfortable a few hours ago.

“What the fuck?” Bucky finally breathes out some words, the first since their encounter in the alleyway. Steve doesn’t have an answer so he only ducks his head and finds a seat behind the counter. He doesn’t know what the fuck, so he allows the scrutiny without complaint. He’s so uncomfortable, so lost in himself, he doesn’t know what else to do.

Steve has lived his life as the scrawny little thing that existed at Bucky’s side, there to kick up trouble and let his best friend pick up the pieces. They had a good thing going like that, and Bucky wasn’t entirely incapable of causing trouble on his own. He didn’t think of himself as a sidekick, but he was probably seen that way. And he didn’t mind it, not really, not if he was close to Bucky, not if they still shared that friendship.

But suddenly, he was a different person. His clothes are stretched to the point of tearing, his body expanded suddenly and impossibly. He feels a lot of things. Confused, terrified,  _ strong _ . He feels well in a way he’s never felt, like there’s nothing nagging at the back of his mind, nothing squeezing at his lungs or tripping up his delicate heart. Like he’s properly  _ healthy _ . He thinks, at least, that’s how he feels—he’s never exactly experienced it before.

But that vitality is secondary to the terrorized confusion. How the hell could this have happened? It’s not real, he tells himself. It’s a dream. A really fucking strange dream. One where Bucky is staring at him in disbelief, then reaching into a bag and handing him a bagel, as if nothing in the world were wrong at all. Now it’s Steve’s turn to stare, but he takes the bread and, after a moment, begins to chew at it for lack of anything better to do.

They sit like that, eating in silence, Bucky staring him down with those big, gorgeous, impossibly wide eyes. Steve might have dreamt of being looked at this hard and long by Bucky under some other circumstance—in a far more pleasant dream. But this one was more a nightmare, and one he doesn’t know how to wake from. He watches Bucky right back, watches him sip his coffee and stare, watches his jaw remain tight after he’s finished eating, watches him lean back then sit forward, then lean back again, like he can’t get comfortable. Steve knows the feeling.

“Okay. What the fuck. Alright,” Bucky finally starts speaking, not that it seems to be doing any good. He rakes his fingers through his hair, settles back, then does it again. He shakes his head, closes his eyes, opens them and seems shocked to find the same Steve sitting before him. And why wouldn’t he be? This is an impossible situation, after all. This isn’t the sort of time you believe what you see. Steve looks down at his hands again, wide and broad, long fingers spanning muscular thighs. He reaches for his coffee and nearly crushes the cup, uncomfortable with the size and the space and the sheer strength.

“Just tell me exactly what happened. What the  _ fuck _ ,” Bucky breathes the curse again while he waits for Steve to recount the events. And, after a moment, Steve does. He tells him about coming in early that morning to get started on stocking their new shipment. He mentions how he was sitting on the floor, combing through notes, how he picked up the mirror and suddenly he was a different person. Bucky listens, but his eyes never light up, never find that moment of clarity they’re both looking for. There’s detail they’re missing, but whatever it is, Bucky hasn’t stumbled upon it in Steve’s telling of events.

“Okay. Right. You came in, you started working, and suddenly you were…” he makes a gesture at Steve, waving his hand from head to toe, as if what Steve is now is beyond the scope of words. Yeah, that’s probably the case. Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose and swears again, clearly thinking through the whole story, trying to pick out whatever hint they haven’t stumbled upon. Finally, he lifts his head.

“You...got something?” Steve asks, his voice far more hopeful than it should be. He watches Bucky but his heart sinks when he only shakes his head.

“Not a damn clue. But… I should probably make a call.” He fishes for his phone from his pocket while Steve only watches. Who the hell could answer any of their questions here? Is he gonna call the police? Does he not really believe Steve is, well, Steve? Maybe he wants an ambulance, some crew to poke and prod him, to work out how a guy over twenty could suddenly have the sort of growth spurt that he’d dreamt of ten years ago.

“Who are you calling?” Steve asks this cautiously, trying to keep his tone from going to accusation. If he fails, Bucky doesn’t let on that he’s offended. He only thumbs through his contacts until he finds who he’s looking for. He presses with his thumb then lifts his head to look at Steve again.

“My boss.”

* * *

  
  


Natasha is somehow both prettier and scarier than Bucky remembered. He opens the door for her and she brushes past without a word, but her face says it all. She’s not just annoyed, but something bordering on furious. There was a calm before, when she was walking up to the shop, when he saw her through the window, between the vinyl-stickered words. This was the storm, and it was one hell of one.

“What the  _ hell  _ did you two idiots do? What did you touch?” She demands this of Steve, who looks pretty damn ridiculous cowering before a woman who’s a good foot shorter than him if she’s an inch. Bucky thinks they must have met at some point, when he was hired on and given keys. He would have been given the same spiel as Bucky, about when to open, how to work the register, the code to the safe, and…  _ fuck _ . It clicks in Bucky’s mind only after she’s said it.

“Just a hand mirror, nothing big, it—” Steve begins stammering, but he’s cut off. She’s still glaring at him with one of those looks that Bucky is pretty sure really could kill a man. He’d had an idea that it was in his best interest not to get on her bad side to start, and this was more than confirming his suspicions.

“—show me.” There’s no room for argument, not that either of them seem keen to opt for one. So Steve leads them both to the back room and stands before the remnants of the mirror. The gilded handle is ornamental as is the frame. The glass is shattered across the floor, which is what Natasha seems to take the most interest in, squatting before it once they’re all inside.

Bucky likes to think that he’s known all along there was something strange about this place and the objects housed inside, but thinking that would be one hell of a lie. At least in light of what Natasha would be telling them. He knew the stuff was expensive, he knew he was never to directly touch. But the why behind it? He couldn’t have guessed, couldn’t have suspected. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to believe.

She rises and goes for the little cardboard box of gloves before she continues her examination. At least one of them is smart enough to do so. She lifts the shell of the mirror and turns it over in her hand, then she sets it back on the ground and, carefully, fingers through the shattered remains of glass. She only does this with the largest shards, and whatever she’s looking for, Bucky can’t say. But she curses under her breath and turns her attention first to Steve, then to Bucky.

“I don’t think you two have any idea what kind of shitstorm you’ve just kicked up,” the anger still sits at the edge of her voice, but there’s a dangerous sort of calm to her now. She rises once more and crosses her arms against her chest, looking again from one to the other. If she’s waiting for a response, neither of them give it. Steve’s head is hanging and he’s mumbling something that’s probably an apology. He definitely has that kicked-puppy look about him, somehow even more charming now that he doesn’t actually look like one.

“You’re sayin’ him breakin’ a mirror did this?” Bucky can’t help but voice the question that must be on both their minds. It’s absolutely absurd. More than absurd, it’s impossible. A broken mirror doesn’t transform a man into...well, anything at all. Seven years of bad luck don’t seem so unlikely now, though.

“I’m saying touching a powerful ancient artifact did this. One that you were expressly and explicitly told not to touch. What, exactly, did you  _ think  _ would happen?” Natasha seems to have this way, Bucky thinks, of making even impossible things sound absolutely real. Ancient artifact… that was the kind of thing out of fairy tales and legends, not out of a shitty hole-in-the-wall in Brooklyn. 

“I thought we were protecting the merchandise! I mean, this stuff is old, it probably shouldn’t be handled much. I didn’t think…” Steve’s voice trails off under a withering gaze. He tries to shove his hands in his pockets, but they won’t fit. Bucky’s heart aches for him and he finds that, even now, he has that same instinct to pull the guy into his arms and protect him. Not that Steve ever would have allowed such a thing, big or small. Still, Bucky’s arms ache to encircle him, his whole body wishes to be a barrier between him and this terrifying woman. He keeps his mouth shut into a tight line though and he  _ does _ put his hands in his pockets, because they fit and he has nothing else to do with them.

“No, you didn’t think. You’re lucky the thing wasn’t cursed. You could’ve been dead right now, or worse. Give me your keys,” she holds out her hand only for Steve to blink at it, as if still processing the command. His mouth opens then shuts and he struggles to retrieve the little ring from his pocket and put it into her palm. Then she turns to Bucky and wiggles her fingers, “you too, James.”

“You’re firing us?” Bucky knows this should be the last thing on his mind, but his stomach drops all the same. He thinks of their little apartment, the one that they couldn’t possibly afford without a couple jobs, namely one that paid far more than it had any right to. He winces, realizing now that there was a reason for that. There was a trust, implicit in the given instructions. And there is, just maybe, some truth to what Natasha is implying here.

“You’re damn right I’m firing you. You’ll be lucky if you aren’t paying for that mirror for the rest of your natural lives,” there’s that deadly calm again, an exasperation as she flexes her fingers once more. Bucky feels sick, as if he didn’t already. Steve is towering over her, looking every bit a chastised child. And Bucky...Bucky is standing empty-handed, feeling a new dread sweep over him.

“You can’t. I can’t… we’ll be homeless. We’ll have to drop out, We’ll—”

“—very sad. Too bad it wasn’t avoidable. Your  _ keys _ , James.” Her eyes narrow on his and he feels ice run through his veins. She’s callous, that much is clear. But there’s something else, too. A sort of...fear? He can only imagine, now that he thinks on it, what will happen to her, when word gets back about what happened here. Will she try to cover it up? Will the owner actually show his face? He winces again and he nods his head toward the door.

“They’re on the counter. Look, really, it was an honest mistake. You never told us!” His words are pleading, but they’re having no effect and he can tell that immediately. He feels like a piece of shit, grovelling to this woman, but he’s not above it. He needs this job,  _ they  _ need it. There’s no space to take in another roommate. There’s no hope to make ends meet without this. His heart aches, but he’s running through ways he can make this work, ways he can get themselves out of this. They’ve been in worse binds before, haven’t they?

“And you would have believed me if I did? I doubt you’d believe me now, if he didn’t suddenly become Mister-fucking-Universe.” She gives Steve another look and shakes her head. Bucky doesn’t know if it’s pity or disgust in her eyes, or maybe a little bit of both. She hasn’t softened at the edges, her rage is still apparent under the impossibly calm surface. And now, they’re gathering up their things as she ushers them from the back room. They’re almost to the door when Steve stops.

“Wait. How do we undo this?” His voice is strange, and Bucky wonders if he really wants the answer. He can’t help but think that, with some time, Steve might be happier this way. But that thought makes his stomach twist up. It’s not a fair assumption. And Steve must be miserable like this, in a body he doesn’t know, under the scrutiny of someone he’s met maybe once in his life. They both stare at her and wait for an answer, though Bucky thinks he knows it before she speaks.

“Honestly? You probably don’t.” She looks at Steve and, after a moment, her eyes do soften. She frowns, almost imperceptibly, and crosses her arms again. A defensive stance if Bucky has ever seen one. Her teeth tug at her lower lip for a moment and she sighs, shakes her head, “I’ll look into it. But you broke the mirror. The odds of fixing this are...decidedly low. Just don’t get your hopes up, alright? If I find anything, I’ll be in touch. Now get the hell out of here before the owner gets here and does something a whole lot worse to you.”

Bucky doesn’t know if the threat is an idle one, but he’s not in any mood to find out.

* * *

They head back to the apartment together, though Steve may as well be alone. He’s stumbling, or at least half-stumbling, through the sidewalk, barely weaving his way through morning crowds. He feels ungainly, awkward, like a stranger in his own body. And he is, really. This isn’t the person he’s always been, but if Natasha is to be believed, it very well may be the person he will now always be.

And there’s the problem of wrestling with that fact, of dealing with the possibility that there’s no undoing this. His mind is buzzing with it all, like the heavy static of an old television set blast in his ears. He hears Bucky say something apologetic, but he doesn’t catch what it is. He only focuses on walking, one foot in front of the other. He’s not going to add insult to injury and trip over his own damn feet, which happen to be aching in shoes that are, along with everything else, now too small.

They make it back and he doesn’t think Bucky has bothered trying to say anything again. His phone hasn’t buzzed in his pocket, meaning Natasha hasn’t found anything over the ten minute hike back to the place Steve is sure won’t be their own much longer. He loved this apartment, tiny and cramped though it might be. It was  _ theirs _ , hard fought for and perfect for the two of them. His stomach aches, physically cramps up with the motion that started somewhere behind his ribs and decides now to spread.

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice breaks through to him and the tone gives Steve the idea he’s been trying to get his attention for more than just a second. Steve sits heavily on the threadbare couch and he looks at his best friend, his face absolutely etched with misery. He’s lost in himself, in more ways than one, and he’s not sure he’s ever felt worse.

There’s still another emotion he hasn’t dealt with yet, hasn’t let entirely surface.  _ Guilt _ . How many times has he fantasized, dreamt of being like this? In how many of his daydreams was he big, strong, healthy? And despite the unease settling throughout his suddenly grown body, Steve  _ does  _ feel all of those things. It’s bewildering, terrifying, and maybe a little relieving. The walk home hasn’t winded him, his eyes aren’t stinging with allergies, there’s no lingering cold or threat of a new one behind his eyes and crowding his lungs. But, to admit this isn’t all bad, what does  _ that  _ say?

“Yeah?” He’s hunched with elbows on his thighs, hands dangling between them. Even this feels weird, the thickness of muscle beneath his arms, the all-around largeness of his form taking up more of the couch when Bucky comes to join him. Nothing feels right, and Steve is starting to wonder when— _ if— _ it ever will again. His jaw is tight and set and, he figures, probably all stoic and wide and well-cut into the new profile of his face. There isn’t a thing about him, he thinks, that hasn’t changed.

“We’ll find a way to fix it.” Bucky says this with more conviction that Steve might have expected. He sounds downright confident, which is maybe perfectly Bucky in a situation like this. He doesn’t know that it’s the truth, just as Steve doesn’t know, but he’s firm in his belief and it shows in his tone, in the way he leans in toward Steve and puts a hand on the outside of his thigh. He feels guilty again, because the touch is still electricity through his veins. This guilt, at least, is familiar—some things will never change.

And maybe there’s a strange leap in his chest, a thought that hadn’t occurred to him and that has no place here. Maybe, like this, Bucky would see him. Actually  _ see  _ him. More than the scrawny sidekick, more than just his best friend who happens to have stars in his eyes whenever they meet his. Maybe he’s an equal now. Maybe he’s appealing, in the way he’s always wanted to be. He has to press the thought quickly from his mind, before hope starts to make its way known as another emotion in the enormous mountain of them forming. That, of anything at all, would be absurd.

There are a number of reasons for Steve to put it out of his mind. Bucky has never shown such an interest in Steve, and they’ve had more than enough time for something along those lines to blossom. He’s never been inclined toward private experimentation or intimate exploration. He’s never shown any indication that he’s aware of Steve’s obvious interest. And that’s for the best, of course, but if he could make something good come out of this, if he could transform in another way, wouldn’t that make it all worth it?

But Bucky’s not that kind of guy. If he wasn’t going to make a move before, a simple doubling in size wouldn’t be enough to make him change his mind. And it’s shameful that it’s the first place Steve’s own mind would go. He blames it on that strong hand on his thigh, that little squeeze he gives—something Steve just wishes he could interpret as more than simple friendship. He feels warm around his cheeks, but doesn’t he always feel that way when Bucky touches him? He groans and lets himself flop back against the couch, pretending very much that he doesn’t feel the thing creak and groan beneath his newfound weight.

“And what if we can’t? Natasha didn’t exactly seem confident,” Steve finally remembers that a response might be due here. He can’t bring himself to the same optimism Bucky is feeling, or at least pretending for his sake to feel. He can’t bring himself to see anything good coming from this situation. He’s lost them both what can only be described as an unrealistically lucrative part-time job. He’s probably lost them this apartment, the relative comfort of having a space of their own. He’s cost Bucky some credibility, since he was the one who vouched for Steve to get said job in the first place. And he’s cost himself, what? The only life he ever knew, that’s all.

“Then...we can’t. We just learn to live with it. But we’ll find a way. We always figure it out.” Bucky’s confidence seems to waver just a bit here, with words that Steve wants to brush off immediately. He’s aware that he’s trying to help, he really is, and he wishes he could accept that assistance. But right now, he’s a jumble of emotion, an absolute wreck of a man. He rubs his hands over his face and pretends that when he pulls them away they’ll be small and bony and insubstantial again. They are not.

“Easy for you to say. You didn’t just become some sort of god in the space of a few seconds.” Steve shifts again, as if there’s any way for him to be comfortable in this body. He doesn’t feel quite as impossibly awkward when he’s lounging back, but that doesn’t mean the feeling sinks in with him. He only knows that it will take time, time he doesn’t want to spend like this. Time he may have no choice but to dedicate to it. He hates it all. He wants to hit something. He thinks, with a humor he shouldn’t have, that maybe he could actually win if he went and started a stupid fight this time.

“No, I didn’t. I don’t know what the hell that’s like, but I know some other things,” Bucky gives Steve’s shoulder a nudge now and that stupid thrill runs through his body again. Even simple, friendly contact is enough to set him off. It’s grown ridiculous as time has passed, to a point where Steve wonders if the best thing to do isn’t step back from this friendship. How fair is it, after all, to be harboring the world’s most severe crush on your blissfully unaware best friend?

“What do you know, Buck?” Steve’s voice is flat, not at all interested in what Bucky has to say, but never denying the man the chance to say it. It sounds like the start of one of his stupid speeches, the ones that always end up making Steve feel better, even if it’s starkly against his will. He hates Bucky for those speeches, as much as you can hate someone you’re pretty sure you actually love; someone who is trying desperately to coax out a smile.

“Plenty. I know you’re still Steve Rogers, even if you don’t feel like it right now. And I know you’re not about to keel over, which is a damn relief for once. And I know,” Bucky hesitates, he gives Steve a look like he’s not sure that he  _ does  _ know what he’s about to say. He gives Steve a look like he’s getting ready to take a dive off a cliff, something that makes Steve’s heart clench up like a fist. “Maybe the rest of the world will see what I always have now.”

Steve doesn’t know what to make of it. What the hell has Bucky ever seen in him that isn’t apparent to anyone else? He’s hard-headed, quick to start fights he’s in no place to finish. He’s always been weak, but maybe that isn’t at least literally the case any more. He’s always been a lot of things, but few of them too flattering. And what has been hidden deep down, beyond a slight and forgettable frame, that would suddenly come to the surface?

Steve is suddenly acutely aware that Bucky’s hand is still on his shoulder, because he squeezes him there and his fingers move, run a circle over the new muscle, slide down to his back. What the hell is he getting at? Steve thinks to pull away, thinks he should, but he can’t. He wants to feel this touch far too badly, has wanted to for a long time. He can let his mind make great, bounding leaps. He can accept that his heart might never slow its staccato beat between his ribs, because damn it, Bucky’s hand is still running down his back and their eyes are locked and Bucky looks flush, looks like someone Steve has never seen before. Like someone who has never seen him. Is he talking about himself? What the hell is he talking about at all?

“What’s that? What do you see?” Steve’s mouth is dry and his voice comes out low, gruff, sounding very much like an interrogation. Maybe he could phrase it better, maybe he could take his mind off what obviously isn’t happening. Maybe he could just let the words sink into him and work out their meaning without pestering Bucky for more. But he’s made his choice and they’re still staring each other down and when Bucky speaks again, it doesn’t clear things up at all.

“You, Steve. I see  _ you _ .” 

Things don’t get any clearer, either, when Bucky’s chin tilts toward his. He can’t see at all when the heat of his breath crosses the bridge of Steve’s nose. He’s utterly blind when their lips touch.

* * *

Bucky knows that, really, he’s gone about this all the wrong way. He’s saying the wrong things and he’s definitely doing something  _ very _ wrong. Steve is vulnerable, emotional, lost in his own head. But that’s the thing of it. Bucky has wanted to do this every damn time Steve has gotten so lost in his thoughts. He’s wanted to pull him out with a slip of his tongue and an exploring hand. He’s wanted to convince Steve that there’s no need to retreat that way, at least not from him. That he’s here, that he wants to know it all, that he wants to know Steve’s feelings and find a way to turn them brighter and better.

But he knows that’s not what Steve will take from this, he knows it the moment he goes for the kiss. He expects to be pushed away, rebuffed, but he’s not. Instead, he finds velvet that parts for him, that invites him further. And he’s not about to stop, not when he’s waited so long— it feels like a damn lifetime. So he does the wrong thing, absolutely the wrong thing, and he tastes Steve’s mouth on his and he lets himself take it in, commit it to memory, live in it.

There’s a moment when they part where Bucky wonders whether or not this was all a mistake. Steve looks at him, when his eyes finally open, with nothing short of bewilderment. Bucky can’t say he feels much different—it’s as though they’re both ready to ask each other whether it really happened. And Bucky, well, he can practically hear the questions before they come—Why? And, perhaps more importantly, why  _ now _ ?

“Guess that’s one way to make me feel better about it,” is what Steve mumbles, his face still flush, his breathing a little quick. Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that, which is a shame, because he’s usually right on Steve’s level with the snappy quips. Instead, he’s stuck marvelling at the man, at how good he looks with his eyes all wide and his lips twitching at a barely-contained smile. Not a mistake, then? Bucky sucks in a breath, trying to hope. “Of course, your timing is kinda terrible, Buck. What’s a guy supposed to think when he gets all big and suddenly his best friend is kissing him?”

Still, Bucky doesn’t have an immediate answer. He’s all locked up with guilt, with the adrenaline rush that follows what he’s just done. He’s taken a plunge here. Regardless of how Steve might have responded—and there were a million far worse ways he could have—Bucky has changed things irrevocably between them. He’s put caution to the wind, followed his heart, all that cliched bullshit. And now, he can barely think of what to say.

“Probably supposed to think his best friend is really good at procrastinating. And, I don’t know, preemptively jealous?” Bucky scoffs at himself for that, but it’s absolutely the truth. He had been thinking about it the entire walk home. Shamefully, the thought had occurred to him almost immediately. Steve was still Steve, but he was a Steve the whole world would be looking at now. Bucky has always seen it in him, those pretty eyes and pouty lips. That attitude that could take on the world. But now that he cuts such a figure, now that he’s so undeniably and near-universally eye-catching? There was no more waiting. No more fretting over how it would ruin everything. No more putting off that chance Bucky was always so afraid to take.

“Think you’re jumping the gun there. I mean, you’re assuming I’m ever leaving this apartment again. And assuming anyone other than you could bear me,” Steve’s smiling now and it’s something that makes Bucky’s heart flutter in just the same way the kiss did. He’s dropped his hand, but Steve’s closes around it. It’s warm and large and strong, a lot of things Steve has never been. It’s foreign, but it’s welcome. Bucky squeezes back, and it’s like the hope is tingling through his fingertips and into Steve’s palm.

“Safe assumptions, Steve. I spent a lot of time thinkin’ about this. I wondered if I ever would. I thought, there’s nothin’ good that could come of it. But when I thought about what might happen now? It felt like it wasn’t even a choice. Had to try to lock you down. Fuck, this is sounding worse and worse. Listen, what I mean is—”

“—I get what you mean. And it does sound pretty bad. But I know you’re an idiot so I’m gonna forgive you,” Steve’s voice tilts into his next thought, leave room to interrupt before his statement finishes. Bucky doesn’t. He only waits while Steve keeps that smile, then lets it spread, “ _ but,  _ I’m only forgiving you if you do that again.”

“Deal.” And Bucky moves almost before he finishes the word, all too eager to make good on the new promise.

* * *

  
  


Natasha cannot, in the end, come up with any means of reversing the spell, curse, whatever it is from Steve. It takes her days to get back to them, but there’s very little pestering on their part. They have, in fact, found a way or two to distract themselves from the reality of the situation. And, more importantly perhaps, the unreality of it.

Bucky spends a lot of time thinking about things he should’ve done earlier. He thinks he should have considered there was more to such a well-paying and low-demand job than met the eye. He should have inquired about the strict rules before he went and recruited someone destined to break them. And, of course, he should have told Steve how he felt when it mattered most—long before he was the object of anyone else’s desire.

Steve spends most of his time in wonder. He wonders about how he’s gotten to this point, how he’s going to move forward. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to this new body, this new life. He wonders if it will last forever—all indications point toward it being permanent—and he wonders what he’ll do if it doesn’t. Mostly, he wonders about how he went so long fearing what might happen if Bucky found out the truth, only to learn that their respective ones weren’t so misaligned.

They’re told a lot of fantastical things about the mirror. About hands it’s passed through, and how its blessing serves also as a curse. There’s something about reflecting a person’s true heart, about transforming them into a reflection thereof. There’s plenty about the people who didn’t have such luck, and about the lengths they went to reverse the change. People who thought themselves gods only to be transformed to beasts. People who yearned and gained or lost not depending upon the hefty price tag, but their own thoughts and deeds.

Neither Bucky nor Steve knew what to think of it all, and it was still hard for them to accept any of it as reality. Bucky felt more content with the answer, while Steve doubted it fully. But Steve never saw the things that Bucky did in himself, never had much reason to. He knew, or he thought he knew, what he was. It just so happened that impossible magical items disagreed.

The big questions still remained. How would they support themselves? How would Steve reintegrate himself as a new person? How would people respond to that same Steve being in an entirely other person’s body? But somehow, Bucky’s thoughts always rang true. They had been through plenty, some of it plenty worse. And they had come out the other side. They would find a way, and they would do it—most importantly of all—together. 


End file.
